


Fire Under My Skin

by aliaoftwoworlds



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst, F/F, Joker also makes a brief appearance, blink and you'll miss it mention of femshep/garrus, heavy subject discussion, see author's note for more extensive warnings, set in me3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 14:27:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17448725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliaoftwoworlds/pseuds/aliaoftwoworlds
Summary: Miranda goes to Jack for a personal problem and finds some common ground.Written for the Mass Effect Mini RBB.





	Fire Under My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> I signed up for the Mass Effect Reverse Big Bang over break and took way too long to write this, but here it is! This was inspired by Solstheimart’s beautiful art which you can see here: http://solstheimart.tumblr.com/post/182055295556/RMEBB2019chrysalisfireundermyskin
> 
> More extensive warnings: discussions of potential rape/non-con, underage sex, child abuse. No explicit sex scenes.

Miranda stood in front of the door to the lounge and sighed. She still wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to do this, but there likely wasn’t going to be another opportunity, and after all, part of the point of this was the impulsive decision. Jack had only been with them temporarily for the last mission, one Shepard had wanted her along for, and she’d be going back to her students soon.

It was hard not to admire Jack’s dedication to her students and the personal growth it represented. The way she’d taken what Cerberus had done to her and turned it into strength and passion and a fierce protectiveness. Jack had gone from being consumed by revenge and hatred to dedicating herself to a cause she believed in, while Miranda… Miranda had done just the opposite.

She closed her eyes and slammed her hand into the door button with more force than necessary, trying to climb back out of the hole her thoughts had been descending into. It was a place she’d been spending a lot of time lately, ever since the death of her father—since she’d _killed_ her father. 

The open door forced her to stop thinking about it for at least a moment, as it revealed Jack lounging at the bar with some kind of bright green drink in her hand, facing the doorway and watching the door open with bored disinterest that only wavered slightly at the sight of Miranda.

A part of her really didn’t want to admit it to herself, but Miranda had been avoiding Jack for some time. She’d been wrong about Jack, in a lot of ways, and didn’t particularly want to face that truth. Jack could easily match her in wits and cunning, and Miranda had been avoiding her for the unacknowledged fear that Jack would immediately notice the change and challenge her on it.

She should have known that it was unlikely; Jack wasn’t exactly the type to discuss her feelings or ask personal questions. Even as Miranda stood in the doorway silently like an idiot, trying and probably failing to disguise her moment of hesitation with her usual haughty attitude, Jack did nothing but raise an eyebrow and look her up and down once. “You lost, Princess?”

Miranda tried her best to look as unflappable as possible as she stepped forward. “Looking for you, actually,” she told Jack.

Jack scoffed, reclining even further against the counter she was leaning on. “Not in the mood for a catfight right now. If you’re looking to get drunk, go the hell ahead.” She gestured at the collection of bottles behind her with a smirk, but when Miranda continued to just stand there, the smirk slid off her face. “What? Don’t tell me Shepard needs me and she’s got you acting as her messenger girl? What’s wrong with that nervous one upstairs who has the hots for her?”

Miranda shook her head once. Jack’s manner could be irritating, for sure, but Miranda could hardly deny that right now it was serving as something of a distraction. Maybe putting her at ease, even, as paradoxical as that should have been.

“Shepard didn’t send me. I… need your help with something. Something personal.” She tried her best to hide the sour look she knew was on her face. It still stung her pride to be asking anyone for help, much less Jack. Shepard had managed to break through that barrier, but Shepard—though she might have had some interesting experiences in her early years on the streets—couldn’t help her with this.

Jack looked genuinely surprised for a moment before another smirk overtook her face. “Hope you’re not looking for fashion advice, because let’s face it, you couldn’t pull this off.” She waved a few fingers at her outfit.

Miranda couldn’t resist a small smile at that. “That’s true, though I doubt anyone but you could pull that off.”

Jack frowned at her like she couldn’t figure out whether she was being mocked or not. Not wanting to offend her right away, Miranda pushed forward. “I’m not here for fashion advice, but it is something… similar. I… want a tattoo.”

There it was, the slight rise of an eyebrow that betrayed Jack’s surprised interest. Miranda couldn’t blame her; she’d put up a pretty uptight front in their past, particularly when they were both working with Shepard under Cerberus. Always so focused on being perfect—the lingering curse of her father, and the reason she was here now.

Jack shifted on her stool, crossing her arms. “And? You want a tattoo, go get one. Why come to me? Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a booth set up on the Citadel.”

Miranda shook her head again. “Not like that. This is… important to me, and I want to do it the traditional way, with real ink and a needle. Like yours.” When Jack narrowed her eyes, Miranda added, “I can tell the difference, you know. Not many people still get them the original way, and I can’t imagine you’ve trusted many people with yours. You must have done some of them yourself.”

“Are you asking me to do one for you?” Jack asked, a challenge in her voice. 

Miranda eyed her carefully, not quite sure what the tone was about. It was quite possible that Jack just didn’t believe Miranda would genuinely ask for her help with something like that. Whatever the reason, Miranda couldn’t do anything but be honest. “Yes. This is… very personal for me, and I wouldn’t trust anyone else with it.”

“You don’t trust me.” It was a statement, not a question.

Miranda had to pause at that. “Of course I do,” she said, unsure how much to say. “We’ve fought beside each other. You helped me turn on Cerberus, and even before I did, you were willing to have my back in combat. You helped me save my sister. I know we started out on different sides, Jack, and I know I made some assumptions about you that were premature to say the least, but I’ve learned the truth about Cerberus. I’ve seen what they did to you, and I’ve seen you grow despite that into someone truly admirable. Of course I trust you.”

That look was back, the one that said that Jack didn’t know whether Miranda was serious or not, but after a moment, she rolled her eyes. “Okay, you don’t have to kiss my ass that much, Catsuit Queen. Don’t strain something trying to come up with compliments. I can give you some ink.”

Miranda frowned at that, but Jack was already standing up. “I’ve still got some equipment stashed on the ship, actually, I can do it whenever if you know what you want. Drop by the server room behind the med bay later. Or don’t. Whatever.” The casual tone wasn’t entirely convincing, and Miranda couldn’t name the feeling that twisted in her stomach. She wasn’t sure if she liked it or not.

She went back to some of her duties around the ship, keeping busy for a few hours. There was plenty to do: cleanup from Sanctuary and that whole mess, organization of troops and supplies leftover from old Cerberus contacts for Shepard and the Alliance fleets, and some of the side ops she’d been helping Shepard run. Now that Oriana was safe again—permanently—from their father, she could focus on some of the things she’d been neglecting.

The night cycle on the Normandy had already started by the time Miranda felt she was done for the day. Most of the day crew were already settled down in their bunks and only the skeleton night crew was working. When she passed through the med bay to get to the server room where Jack had told her to meet, she saw that Chakwas had gone to bed as well, leaving just one medic sitting in the corner and scrolling through some kind of medical text up on a screen.

Jack was exactly where she said she’d be, sitting against a low railing with supplies spread out around her. She had a datapad in her hand, but she put it aside as soon as she saw Miranda entering. “So, didn’t change your mind?”

“No.”

Jack once again looked like she didn’t know how to respond to the firm answer, the lack of any kind of taunt or banter, so she just shrugged. “What are you looking for?”

Miranda silently handed her a datapad with the picture she wanted and Jack spent a few moments examining it. Her expression was hard to read, but Miranda found herself watching closely, hoping for a glimpse of what Jack was thinking. She felt slightly foolish for it, but she couldn’t quite help herself.

“Where? And how big are we talking?” was Jack’s next question—professional and to the point. Miranda hadn’t ever thought “professional” was a word she’d apply to Jack.

Before she could have any kind of second thoughts, Miranda turned and stripped her shift off, showing her bare back to Jack. A gesture of trust in a lot of ways, she realized, then tried unsuccessfully to shove that thought away. She swept a hand across the back of her shoulders to indicate where she wanted it.

There was a moment of silence, no more than a second or two, but it seemed to drag on forever. Miranda found she was holding her breath—waiting for what, she didn’t know, but that question was answered for her a moment later. She heard Jack step closer, and then there were small, strong, surprisingly warm fingers on her skin. They brushed over the area Miranda had indicated, then traced a large outline. “Like this?” Jack asked behind her.

Miranda nodded, afraid to speak. She didn’t want her voice betraying the tight feeling in her chest. It was ridiculous to be reacting like this to simple touch, but it was affecting her. It could have been because of how long it had been—she’d hugged Oriana one last time before they parted ways after what happened at Sanctuary, and she hadn’t had any human contact since then that didn’t involve a punch or snapping a neck—but Miranda had the distinct feeling that this was, at least in part, because it was _Jack_.

Maybe it was that revelation of trust. It had been hard for Miranda to ever really trust anyone, after being raised by her father to be ruthless and cunning and see other people as nothing but tools. She trusted Oriana, of course, but she’d had to keep her sister at arm’s length most of her life, for Oriana’s protection. She’d trusted Niket, and look where that had led her. Shepard had been the first person in a long time that Miranda had come to put her full trust in, and that had scared her at the time. She hadn’t wanted to believe in another person so much, to rely on them. It made her feel uncomfortably vulnerable, and worse, it made her feel lacking. To not be able to do something herself meant that she was flawed, and that was something her father had found unacceptable. A lesson she’d taken to heart.

She’d put her faith into Cerberus for a long time. They’d become her whole life, and though she knew very well that they were far from perfect, in order to justify working so hard for them, she had to maintain that their morals at least aligned with her own. She needed that to feel like she was in control. She’d trusted too much of herself to the Illusive Man but hadn’t realized it until Shepard came along. Shepard was an enigma, a problem that couldn’t be solved and a solution to problems people didn’t know they had, and it bothered the hell out of Miranda. She’d put two years of her life into the project, had utter control over every detail, exactly the way she liked it; only to resurrect this stubborn, unpredictable, infuriatingly independent woman who refused to see things the way Miranda wanted and constantly threw a wrench in her plans.

Miranda could follow Shepard’s lead, keep an eye on her for Cerberus, do anything she was ordered. The problem wasn’t with going along with what Shepard was doing. Most of what Shepard wanted was what Cerberus wanted anyway, even if her methods were rarely Cerberus-approved and she retained a healthy suspicion of her employers the entire time. Miranda could deal with all of that. What bothered her was that Shepard made good points. When she talked about what Cerberus had done, the problems inherent in their structure and the reasons their miraculous resurrection came with strings attached, Miranda couldn’t help but see the logic in it, and she hated that. Shepard was changing her views on Cerberus, the organization she’d built her life around and put everything she had into. 

She’d always had backup plans, of course. She’d have been a fool to trust Cerberus completely and utterly. But she’d believed in their mission, and Shepard had been chipping away at that belief, which bothered her to no end. Which was why, when another loud, unpredictable woman came barging into her life claiming Cerberus was evil, she’d put up a strong front. She’d disliked Jack from the beginning, her callousness and her vulgarity and her complete disregard for any kind of structure or organization. And Jack had obviously hated her for her support of Cerberus.

When Shepard had demanded that Miranda let Jack access classified files to try to look up her own past, Miranda had resisted for multiple reasons, reasons she might not have recognized at the time. The Illusive Man wouldn’t want Jack digging in those files not because of the trouble Jack herself could cause—Miranda knew very well Cerberus could have had her killed if they’d really wanted to—but because he was afraid that Shepard would take their side. Shepard, the damn bleeding heart who was already suspicious of Cerberus, loved taking in strays and coaxing the most reluctant people to trust her, and Jack’s story of abuse and torture in her childhood to be turned into a living weapon was just the kind of thing Shepard would eat up.

The Illusive Man was afraid that Shepard would take Jack’s side and would turn against them. Miranda was afraid for the same reason; after all, Shepard’s resurrection had been _her_ project, and she was supposed to be keeping Shepard on Cerberus’s side. But looking back, she could understand that she was also afraid for herself. She didn’t want to learn that Jack was right, that Cerberus had really done something so horrible to children in ruthless pursuit of their goals. Miranda didn’t want this half-dressed walking art gallery to come in and crack the foundation of her views on life.

But she had. Miranda had learned to trust her, and come to believe her, and she could track all the drastic changes in her life back to when Jack had come into it. Before she’d worked with Shepard and Jack, she could never have pictured herself actually confronting her father like she had. Hiding Oriana from him, yes, but not standing up to him. Not recognizing that what he’d done to her was wrong and unfair and that she deserved better.

Jack was talking, and Miranda had to snap out of her thoughts to focus on the words. She’d really been letting herself drift so much at just a simple touch, and she berated herself internally for it. It seemed her recent family troubles and the impending end of everything was taking its toll on her.

“—take a few sessions for something that big,” Jack was saying when Miranda was able to force herself to focus. “If you want to come back every night, I can get it done by the time I have to leave.”

“Sure,” Miranda said, hoping her voice came out level. “Sounds good.”

Jack just grunted an affirmative and gestured at the raised platform, the closest thing to a bed in the room. Miranda moved to settle herself down on her front, pulling her arms above her head and turning her head to find the best position. She settled quickly and found herself grateful for the discipline and training that could keep her still. She really didn’t want to mess up the image and the cold, hard platform was anything but comfortable. But this wasn’t about comfort.

Jack mixed her inks in silence, tampering with them to get just the color she wanted, occasionally holding something out for Miranda to inspect or approve. It took a while to get the right blue, but Miranda was impressed with the results. They really would look lifelike. Finally, with everything set, Jack motioned her back down and set about cleaning her back, then picked up her machine and set it to skin.

She didn’t give any warning or ask if Miranda was sure or wanted to back out. Miranda was grateful for it. There was just the buzz of the tattoo gun and the very slight stinging pain in her back. In the list of physical pains Miranda had experienced, this barely registered.

Jack worked in silence, and Miranda wasn’t sure if she was grateful for it or not. She tried her best to keep herself occupied with thoughts of the missions she was overseeing and the preparations for the final battle with the Reapers instead of the meaning behind the lines being traced into her skin or the touch of the woman behind her.

It didn’t feel as long as it had been when Jack was announcing that she was done for the night and to come back tomorrow. Miranda got up and pulled her shirt back on carefully, leaving with a simple thanks.

When she got back to her temporary quarters, she took a moment to inspect her back in the mirror. The skin was red around where the needle had been piercing it, unsurprisingly, though that would fade faster than normal with her enhancements. Hopefully the ink would stay. The darker lines across her back looked practically random right now. Miranda wasn’t much of an artist herself and had a hard time seeing how they would become what she’d presented to Jack, but if she could trust Jack to help protect her sister, she could trust her not to screw up a tattoo on purpose.

She didn’t see Jack much at all the next day, mostly confining herself to the war room. Deep in battle strategy and supply movements, she had plenty to distract her from thoughts of Jack, though of course she still found her mind wandering to Oriana and her father regularly. Sometimes she was frustrated with herself for her inability to let it go, but other times, she recognized that there really hadn’t been much time yet for her to cope with killing her own father, and that with everything going on, she hadn’t had time to properly process it.

She went back to the server room that night to the same scene, Jack with her equipment at the ready, though this time she had a comm line open and was talking with Joker.

“Seriously, never?” Joker was asking, voice tinny through the speakers.

“Nope,” Jack said. There was a trace of something smug in her voice.

“God, that’s everyone on the ship. I really thought you might… I—I just mean, you know, if anyone—”

“What, if anyone had fucked a robot, it’d be me?” Jack said loudly, cutting off Joker’s stammering. “Looks like you’re a pioneer in that department, asshole. But thanks for assuming I’d fuck anything in the galaxy. I don’t know whether to be flattered or come up there and—”

“Okay!” Joker interrupted, practically shouting into the comm. “Great talk, thanks, I’ll see you around, Jack!”

The click of the comm turning off sounded and then Jack let out a short but sincere bark of laughter. “I love winding him up,” she said when she noticed Miranda’s eyes on her.

“Be careful, if you scare him too much it might affect his ability to fly the ship,” Miranda said lightly, and Jack laughed again.

“You want to get to it or what?” 

Miranda nodded and stripped off her shirt without preamble, moving to lie down on the platform like the night before. She’d never had any shame about her body and she was more than used to eyes on her, though she certainly noticed Jack’s. There was no comment, however, so she did her best to ignore it.

Jack resumed her work silently once more, but after an hour or so, she spoke up. “So what is it?”

“Hm?” Miranda had been drifting slightly, thinking about one of her contacts on Illium and how best to negotiate the redirection of some goods.

“What is it?” Jack repeated. “Favorite butterfly? Old pet? Just something you thought was pretty?”

Miranda was taken aback, just a bit. She hadn’t actually expected Jack to ask. “Ilosian Iridescence. That’s what they’re called. They don’t exist in nature anymore, just bred in labs. They lay their eggs on raw crystallized eezo and the caterpillars have a layer of it over their skin that makes them poisonous to touch. Once they’re butterflies, they have the same layer over their wings. If predators tried to eat them, they’d die. But it also makes their wings just heavy enough that they can’t handle any tears or missing pieces. Every Iridescent butterfly you ever see is physically perfect, because the moment they become anything but, they die.”

There was a long pause, silent in the server room except for the buzzing of the gun. “Sounds shitty for the butterflies,” Jack finally said.

Miranda let the silence stretch on yet again, debating with herself. Even around Shepard, she had a hard time really opening up this far. Delving into the things that kept her up at night, the real issues with her own self and her personality, and the depth of the things her father did to her. Maybe, now that he was dead, she felt like she could talk more about it. Maybe it was the relative privacy of this room bolstering her confidence. 

Or maybe… maybe it was that it was Jack asking. Jack was simultaneously easier and more difficult to talk to than Shepard. Shepard was always willing to listen, to be empathetic, and even to offer advice that, more often than not, was wise and helpful. Jack was often rude and sarcastic and obnoxious, but she was also brutally honest. When she actually cared to be serious, she revealed a depth of emotion and introspection that surprised Miranda. And though Shepard had certainly had her own difficult childhood on the streets, there were certain experiences that Miranda felt Jack could relate to more.

Mind made up, Miranda took a measured breath and opened her mouth again. “It is shitty. I’d know. My father kept some in one of his labs, and I used to watch them. When I was six years old, he brought one out and let it sit on my hand. The poison is only on their wings, so as long as they sit still, you’re fine. He told me that he designed me to be just as perfect and just as deadly as the butterfly, and then he asked if I knew what happened when perfect things got something wrong. When I said no, he took a knife and he put a hole in one of the butterfly’s wings. It fell off my hand within a few seconds, couldn’t hold itself up anymore. He made me watch it lay there twitching for a few minutes, and then he told me I had to decide what happened to it. I wanted to fix it, naturally. I thought he knew everything back then, that with everything in that lab, there must have been some way to save the butterfly. He told me that there was no way to fix it. That if I wanted to help it, I would put it out of its misery. So I crushed it. And then he told me that if I didn’t want to end up like the butterfly, I’d better make sure no one ever puts a hole in one of my wings.”

The sound of the tattoo gun stopped, just for a moment. Jack changing the ink out, probably, but the sudden silence felt deafening. When it came back to touch her skin, there was a second’s pause. “That’s super fucked up,” Jack said, and then resumed her work.

They didn’t say anything else for the rest of the session, but when Miranda got up at the end of the night and left with another thanks, she heard a quiet “good night” from behind her.

Once again, the next night, Jack was the one who spoke first. They were maybe half an hour in when her voice broke the quiet in the room. “So is it a reminder to be perfect, or a ‘fuck you’ to your asshole dad?”

Miranda paused to consider that. It was a heavy question. “I think… it’s a reminder that I _can’t_ be perfect. No one can. It’s a reminder of everything my father taught me, and the fact that a lot of it was outright wrong. It’s to help me remember that I don’t need to live by his standards. He always talked about how he designed me to be perfect, and he taught me to see myself that way—the way he did. As a tool, a collection of perfect parts each meant to do a job. He had such impossible standards that he made me resent my inevitable imperfections. Everything from a pimple to a missed shot in target practice, I hated myself for. I considered it an inherent flaw, and I had no measure for how severe anything was, because my father didn’t accept imperfections. So to me, everything was on the same high level, every mistake was just as horrific. I hated myself for anything that made me feel like I was wrong, or anything less than perfect, and I still have to remind myself every day that it’s okay to be flawed sometimes.”

“Is that why you stuck with Cerberus so long?” Jack asked. She certainly wasn’t one to beat around the bush, instead diving straight into the deepest subjects.

“I suppose so. Cerberus helped me get away from my father—helped me get Oriana away from my father, which was even more important to me than my own safety—and I felt like I owed them. But it was more than that, you’re right. The Illusive Man was so strong in his convictions, and he has this… charisma about him, something that makes you believe like he does—that as long as you can justify your actions, they’re right. I think, for someone like me, that was an addictive feeling.”

Jack huffed from behind her. “Someone who doesn’t know how to handle a lack of control, you mean?”

Miranda sighed. “Yes.” She wasn’t sure if Jack was trying to provoke her, or maybe to milk all she could out of Miranda’s sudden willingness to admit her own flaws, but she didn’t have much else to say. It was true.

“I’m the same, you know,” Jack said after another minute. “I hate losing control. I always have escape routes and exit strategies and if everything goes to hell, I can usually count on blasting my way out of a place. Maybe it looks different on us, but I think we have that in common. You were raised to keep control by being perfect all the time and I was taught to keep it by being the most powerful person in the room. Kill anyone who gets in my way, or at least make them shit their pants.”

Miranda couldn’t help but laugh at that, which made Jack put a hand down on her shoulder to keep her from moving under the gun. The warm touch set a fire blazing under her skin that she was pretty sure had nothing to do with soreness from the needle.

Half trying to distract herself from the sudden rush of feeling and half genuinely wanting to get it out in the open, Miranda blurted out, “I’m sorry.” When there was no answer, she bit her lip and elaborated. “I’m sorry for judging you prematurely, and wrongly. I’m sorry for ignoring what Cerberus did to you just because I couldn’t handle the blow to my own pride. I was wrong, and you have every right to hate me for it. You could hate the whole universe for the hand you’ve been dealt but you don’t. You’ve taken all the pain and wrongs in your life and turned them into something good, and I’m sorry that I didn’t see that in you sooner.”

The tattoo gun had stopped again. The silence seemed to stretch on. Miranda couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so nervous about the outcome of a simple conversation, particularly one that didn’t have lives or anything world-ending riding on it. This was just her, putting out her apology to a woman she’d wronged and wondering what the response would be, hoping it would be positive with a desperation that surprised her.

Finally, there was an exhale behind her. “You’re making me sound like Shepard or something. I’m not some paragon of goodness. I’m not trying to singlehandedly save the damn universe or anything.”

The answer sounded genuine and Miranda risked turning her head to look at Jack. There was something in her eyes that Miranda couldn’t place. “Maybe not, but you’re still a good person. Better than I thought you to be. Maybe you’re not out to save the galaxy, but you were still willing to sacrifice quite a lot for those kids of yours. After everything that’s happened to you, you can still be so protective of them. That’s admirable.”

Jack held her gaze for a long moment before looking away. “Thanks,” she said, and it was quiet and open. She shifted back and then pushed herself to her feet. “I’m done for the night,” she said, and for once, turned and left the room first.

Miranda hoped she hadn’t crossed some invisible line, but it didn’t feel like it. She’d told the truth, and she hoped Jack believed that. She looked at her back in the mirror that night, at the shapes of the butterflies formed across her shoulders—already more beautiful than Miranda had imagined and yet somehow incomplete—and wondered why, exactly, she was so invested in what Jack thought of her. 

She never did come up with an answer.

When she came back the next night, Jack was there as usual, and something loosened in Miranda that she hadn’t known was wound tight. She realized that she hadn’t been entirely sure whether Jack would actually show up after what happened the previous night, but Jack looked the same as ever. “Adding details, now,” she said as Miranda approached and undressed, “they’re almost done. There’s just something… they need movement. I can do that.”

Miranda just nodded and settled down as usual. Once Jack started working, however, she spoke up. She was determined to be the first to talk, for once. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable, last night,” she said, and though there was no change in the buzz of the gun across her back, she could tell that Jack was listening intently. “I meant everything I said. You are a courageous and kind woman, Jack, in spite of everything that’s happened to you, and even in spite of what you want other people to think, sometimes. I believe that.”

There was a pause as Jack switched colors again. “Thanks. I mean, it’s fucking weird to hear you say that, don’t get me wrong, but thanks. I guess I was wrong about you too; I thought you were some spoiled little princess with a stick up her ass for no reason. Turns out your father was about as much of a freak as the bastards that raised me, and at least you have a reason for the stick up your ass.”

That made Miranda laugh again. She swallowed it down and tried to stay still as the gun came back to her skin. Jack continued behind her. “I thought you were just a cold-hearted bitch who didn’t give a shit what happened to anyone else as long as you came out on top. Kind of like me. But seeing you with your sister… it’s obvious you really love her, and shit like that.”

In spite of the callous tone, Miranda could tell that there was something deeply buried there. “You know, I could say the same thing about you and those kids,” she said.

There was another long silence. “…Yeah. I guess you could.”

Jack went back to working and Miranda stayed quiet for a long while, wondering what exactly that meant. She was still trying to parse it out over an hour later when Jack suddenly burst out talking.

“Where I grew up, in that hellhole… there were a bunch of us, right? And we were fucking kids, so like fucking kids do, we made friends with each other in secret. They didn’t put us together much, and we were really only supposed to fight each other, but we learned how to pass messages back and forth and shit. There was this girl that showed up one day, few years younger than me. I was maybe nine or ten. She was pretty powerful, but she was always crying, she didn’t want to fight anyone, and she was a tiny little twig. She bruised like a fucking peach whenever they hit her. And she latched on to me, for some reason. She loved me. I used to try to keep the other kids away from her, you know, promised them I’d go easier on them in the ring if they left her the fuck alone.”

There was a jerky movement that Miranda could just barely feel through the tattoo gun and then all touch disappeared. She risked a glance back and saw that Jack had pulled back, sitting with her eyes closed and her nostrils flared, hands clenched. “Except one day this little piece of shit beat on her in the ring, and I was up next, and she was so fucked up afterward that she forgot what she was doing and she came straight to me. Crying in my arms and everything. And as soon as the bastards saw it they decided to punish us for it. They put us in the ring and they told me I could either kill her myself or she’d be fed to the dogs—after they had their fun with her. Vicious bastards.”

Miranda didn’t know whether she meant the dogs or the things— _people_ seemed like too nice a term—who did all that to them. She almost wished that she hadn’t been too hardened by experience to cry at hearing this. 

“They didn’t give me a weapon,” Jack continued, “so I had to tear her apart with my biotics. It wasn’t the first time I’d killed something—or someone—but it was the first time it was one of the other kids, and it was the little shit who loved me. After that, I never talked to any of them. The assholes got exactly what they wanted. I became the vicious little killing machine they wanted, and I never really stopped. Violence and death get results, and attachments are just weaknesses. That’s what I was taught. Since then… I thought I’d never be able to actually care about another person again. They beat it into me enough that I really couldn’t do it. But those kids… fuck, those are _my_ kids, and I care about the little bastards enough that if one of them gets hurt, I get hurt. I don’t know what do with that.”

Miranda had nothing to say to that, because she didn’t know either. Instead, after a pause, she asked quietly, “Are any of them for her?”

Jack looked up at her, holding her gaze for a long moment, before nodding like she’d seen something she approved of. She shifted back, pulled off her jacket and top so that she sat bare-chested in front of Miranda, and pointed to a small cluster of swirled symbols on her chest, near her heart. Miranda wasn’t sure if she should be seeing any significance in that or not. 

Miranda couldn’t help but look, let her eyes wander the expanse of Jack’s chest. Not to be lewd, but simply to look at everything there. All the symbols and words and art pieces that she’d never taken the time to think about before. All inked in the same way as Miranda’s, the traditional way, that required time and pain and a real needle. Some of these were things most others hadn’t seen, despite how much skin Jack usually showed.

Jack just watched her, knowing where she was looking and narrating her life as she went along. “That’s for this asshole Caleb, some human trafficker who thought I’d be an easy target when I was young and stupid and still trying to barter my way onto ships with money or work,” she said, pointing to a spot on her ribs. “First he told me he’d let me onto his ship for ‘work,’ only the work turned out to be free sex for his crew. I was fifteen, I said what the hell. I was already on the ship anyway. But then I found the other girls, and some of them were like twelve, and when he found out he tried to chain me up and stick me with them. Didn’t know I was a biotic, and I made him choke on his own blood.”

Miranda looked away, to another on her stomach. “Kamiara, this hot Asari. We moved weapons together for a while, but then we got _involved_ , and you know how that always ruins a business partnership. She was a pretty good lay, but then she tried to slit my throat in my sleep, so I had to kill her.”

Pointing to another on her hip without Miranda looking, Jack turned a bit to better show her the blood red marks. “Maveen, my first turian. Slaver that used to work for the Suns and decided to move up on his own. He crossed me, thought I looked like bait, and he was wrong. You ever fucked a turian? I don’t know how Shepard does it. Course, it might work a little better if you go slow and you’re both into it. Who knows.”

Jack must have misinterpreted Miranda’s sick expression, because she shrugged, expression closing off a bit. “Sex sells, you know? I learned pretty fast that I could fuck my way onto just about any ship I wanted, or into any club or locked building. Even when I didn’t have shit but my biotics, I could still sell sex.”

Miranda shook her head slightly. It wasn’t about that—she could understand the position Jack had been in, and she really didn’t judge a person by their sexual encounters. It was the idea that some of it wasn’t consensual, that some of it was when she was still a _teenager_ , that was nauseating.

She didn’t know how to say that without sounding patronizing, so she just told her own story instead. “My father taught me the same thing. He never touched me, of course—he at least had _some_ morals—and I always had plenty of money, at least before I snuck Oriana away from him. But he would tell me that every part of myself was useful for something, including my body. I was taught to see myself as a tool in every way. I’ve used sex for politics or bargaining or whatever I’ve felt I needed in the past.”

“We really are two of a kind, huh?” Jack said, and there was an uncommonly raw, wry smile on her face. Miranda matched it with a genuine one of her own.

“I’m done, by the way,” Jack said, producing a pair of small mirrors. “Take a look.”

Miranda took one and held it up, turning her back to where Jack held the other, and her breath caught. The butterflies spread across her back could have been real. She felt like if she reached back to touch them, they’d take flight from the reddened skin surrounding them, erasing these days of work and leaving her bare again.

There were words of thanks and beauty on the tip of her tongue, but none of them seemed adequate to describe the work. They also didn’t seem right for Jack, and for the conversations they’d had throughout this entire experience. So instead, she said the first thing that came to her mind. “My father would have hated this.”

Jack laughed again, and Miranda suddenly became aware of the fact that they were both undressed above the waist, stripped down in more ways than one and showing each other what was on and underneath their skin. She lowered the mirror and turned back to face Jack, who was suddenly looking at her with more intensity than before.

And before she really knew what had happened, they were pressed together, turning kissing into a competitive sport—the only way it ever could have been between the two of them. She was simultaneously taking out her frustrations with Jack and reveling in the strange connection they’d formed over these last few days. Jack was careful around her shoulders and back, likely not wanting to ruin her hard work, but she pressed her fingers into just the right spot to make Miranda gasp a bit into her mouth and when they pulled back, Jack was smiling like she’d won something.

“My father would have hated this, too,” Miranda said in retaliation, mostly just to see the look on Jack’s face.

“If you’re still thinking about your dad right now, I must be doing something wrong,” she said, and it was Miranda’s turn to laugh.

Of course, the datapad Miranda had brought in chose that moment to chirp an alert that she knew meant something vital was happening with one of her covert ops, something that needed immediate attention. “Shit,” she said, turning to grab it and scan the message. Catastrophic failure, of the Reaper kind, requiring a ton of very immediate damage control. She wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

“Damn,” she said, already climbing to her feet and heading for the door. She was halfway there when her shirt hit her in the face.

“I wouldn’t really mind walking around the ship with my tits out,” Jack said, smirking, “but I have a feeling they’d look at you a little weirder.”

Miranda stopped long enough to put her shirt on, then paused at the doorway. Her tattoo was done. Jack would be going back to her students tomorrow, and they might never work another mission together again. Assuming they weren’t all killed by the Reapers in the next week. This had been a sort of oasis of peace, a moment between the two of them that she’d never genuinely thought she would have, and a part of her would miss it. She had a feeling that, even if they met again, the atmosphere would never quite be the same between them. 

Jack’s smirk changed to something a little more genuine, just for a second. “I’ll see you after Shepard saves the damn galaxy,” she said, and Miranda smiled. It wasn’t really a promise to meet again; they both knew that was too unlikely. It would be a miracle if either one of them survived the remainder of the Reaper war, much less both of them. Then again, they’d survived some impossible odds before. What they were really promising to each other was to hold out hope, and to hold on to this moment.

Miranda could do that.


End file.
